as we ride
by Grey Foxes
Summary: War is waiting and Death is ready. Famine salts the earth while Pestilence infects the planet. The Apocalypse is here, Wizards, and there is not a thing that you can do.
1. Prolouge

_When I was a kid, Harry Potter was the best thing ever. Who wouldn't think that? It had magic, it had kids saving the day, plus dragons. Dragons were a big hit for me. But then, as I got older, I started to see things. The Dursely's are outright abusive, and while I'm American, this would get them arrested. So why weren't they? Why did Dumbledore confess he knew Harry would be condemned to fifteen dark and terrible years? Why, as a matter of fact, did the fate of society rest on a seventeen-year-old kid? _

_It shouldn't. Part of reading a book when you're older is knowing the why of things, and JK Rowling doesn't give us the why, but the how. This doesn't fit. It doesn't. Where is the history, where is the people? Where are the supposedly upset Death Eaters? Where is the supposed network of violence?_

_The Wizarding Society of Britain- something wrong here. Terribly wrong, and I know I' not the first to figure it out. Now, as most of the people who figure this out do, you get __**let them ride**__, a story of the Wizarding World's destruction. _

_I regret nothing._

(*)(*)(*)

Once, a very long time ago, Death found himself in need of an extra, if you would be crass enough to call it that. He, since God in a fit of spite, created parallel universes with slight differences. Death could not simply create more Reapers. No. He found himself in need of a partner.

War, Famine and Pestilence found themselves in the same predicament. They simply couldn't expand themselves any longer.

Death found a solution. He found the Perverells. His partner, he recognized, would come from one of them, but he simply wasn't sure of which. So, he decided, he would give them his wand, his ring, and his cloak, and the first to successfully unite (or had the potential to unite, Death wasn't picky) the three would be his partner.

War found his solution in Italy. The Ribbons were an assassin group that could be traced back to the founding of the Wizarding World, and War recognized their potential. He gave one his sword, one his necklace, and the third his ring. He laughed as the dagger caused the first and the Second World War, disguised as a gun in this world, and the necklace had a history of blood. The ring however, had been lost, and War wasn't going to go look for it.

Famine gave a scale and his salt to the poorest family he could find- the Blacks. The Blacks, however, came briefly into possession of War's weapon, and used it to their best advantage to gain wealth. Famine was impressed. They were certainly starved of morals.

Pestilence was much simpler. He simply placed a timepiece, a vial of sludge so disgusting that it had to remain corked, and his ring where it could be stolen. The vial was opened once (and it caused the Black Death), and the timepiece was always five minutes late.

The items slowly migrated towards their masters as their previous masters found replacements.

(*)(*)(*)

"This is taking fucking forever," War complained. She was in a bar, in a slim red dress, with hair that looked like a river of fire. Pestilence was beside her, also looking like a girl.

"Quite," Death said, "The Apocalypse is building in one of the older universes, and you're complaining now? War, you just lost your ring." He sipped at a glass of wine. "I don't think you have any right to complain."

"He's right, doll," Famine said, admiring his gaunt body in the bar's mirror. None of them were particularly bothered (expect for Death, because the others always left him do the cleanup) that all the other occupants of the bar was dead after someone tried to hit on War.

That person was decapitated and was in pieces. Death found it so terribly crude.

"Hey," Pestilence coughed out, "You feel that?"

There was a low thrum in the air. The four Horsemen smiled.

(*)(*)(*)

Bellatrix slowly picked up a small, stained ouch of salt, and the tiny scale that was next to it. The Longbottoms…had they not sensed their power? Idly, she out on the ring that lay next to the other three objects, when she heard the distinctive popping noise of Apparition. She didn't notice that the scale had made itself to a charm bracelet with a single charm on it, and attached itself to her wrist. She didn't notice the pouch that was suddenly around her neck.

If she had, it wouldn't have changed much.

Bellatrix Black was taken to Azkaban on November Third, 1981. The low thrum of the Apocalypse was now in her blood, and if the Ministry had noticed…

Well, they didn't.

Bellatrix Black was Famine now, and nothing could happen could change that.

(*)(*)(*)

Gabrielle Delacour was_ such_ a naughty child! She ruined so many dresses, wouldn't do as she was told, and threw such terrible tantrums!

And that ugly pocket watch she had found in the trash, not to mention that gaudy ring and necklace she always wears. Ugh! Why couldn't she be like her older sister?

And that terrible, terrible illness that was floating around the respectable purebloods. It was a killer, alright. Several of the more prominent ones had already drawn themselves into seclusion.

Gabrielle Delacour was Pestilence, and if someone had cared to try to show that they cared…

Well they didn't.

Nothing could be done to stop her, now.

(*)(*)(*)

Blaise Zabini saw his father die while he was still in the cradle. He watched the proceeding ones die to- his mother thought it would be good practice when he took over.

On his tenth birthday, his mother gifted him with a dagger and a necklace.

On his eleventh, he received a ring.

If someone had taken notice of Samantha Zabini…

Which they didn't.

Blaise Zabini was looking to rent this world in half. He was War now, and there was nothing to be done.

(*)(*)(*)

Harry Potter.

Well, he's an interesting case.

Born to kill a dark lord, born of the Perverell's ancestry- he was bound to attract attention at some point in his life.

The cloak comes to him the first time he has to sneak into the kitchen to get food to stop his stomach from growling.

The ring comes to him the first time he needs reassurance.

The wand. The wand comes to him the first time he's able to fight back.

If someone had only loved little Harry Potter…

No one ever had.

No one ever will.

They caused their own destruction. He was Death now, and there was nothing to do to prevent it.

There was nothing to be done for _any _of them, and, as thus, caused their own destruction


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

**time is only relative (to the ones below us)**

_Partly inspired by- This Ain't No Self Insertion by TardisisTheOnlyWayToTravel _

_Famine_

Bellatrix Black remembers.

Starvation, denial of free will.

It's delicious.

She doesn't register hunger the way she should anymore, and after a while, finds that she's able to distort her body. If she only tries a little, she can fit through the bars.

She doesn't bother to. Azkaban is a delicacy, with the dementors that avoid her cell, the sobbing of her fellow inmates, and the guards.

Oh, the _guards_.

Such a delight really. They have more emotional output then the average inmate, and the abuse they heap on the prisoners- Bellatrix simply has to laugh. She loves this. The Dark Lord, she knows, won't be able to provide for her any longer. He simply can't give her the energy that courses through the planet with every turn, and she knows, _knows_ that the others are biding their time to start.

Once, she gets a visitor.

It's Narcissa, who brings baby Draco with her.

Narcissa is slighter than what she used to be, with grey hairs marring her once snow-white hair. She still looks elegant, of course, just weathered. Bellatrix knows exactly what she looks like. Old and ugly- homeless.

"Bella," Narcissa says.

"Cissy." Bellatrix says, amused. "What brings you here to Azkaban?"

"To let you see your nephew. He's old enough now to withstand some of the effects from the dementors." Narcissa says coolly. Bellatrix blinks, taken aback.

"Draco, tell your Aunty what you've been doing," Narcissa demands of her son. Draco blinks and starts to talk rapidly, trying to enunciate every word, while talking as fast as he can. It's cute, but the visit is cut short when the guards get bored and arrive to drag Bellatrix back to her cell.

Narcissa and Draco visit once a month after that encounter, and Bellatrix feels only a little bit off.

Four years after the events of November Third, 1981 (the date will always be capitalized, in Bellatrix's mind) she receives another visitor.

The man is thin and boney, and has a terrible grin- his teeth are to sharp, and almost don't quite fit in his mouth. He's wearing muggle clothes as well- another thing that gives Bellatrix a reason to be wary. To the guards, he gives his name as Demetrious Famina. "Demi, for short," he said, to her amused look.

"Destruction and Famine? I'm not exactly what you may call a fool, Famina."

The man smiled, "I suppose you _could_ call me Famine- only at your own discretion of course." He smirked. "I'd imagine that you're learning what you need to be without my help?"

"I have the powers beyond the gods now," Bellatrix said thoughtfully, "and I know about the legend of Icarus."

Famine smiled at Famine. "Welcome to the family, sister."

(*)(*)(*)(*)

Her fourth visitor is a surprise.

He doesn't look like he should, skinny and malnourished, and Bellatrix raises an eyebrow. "Hello, brother," she says.

"Sister, says Harry Potter, looking at her with those cold green eyes, "The messes you get into." He radiates Death, and the dementors are keeping further away from her cell than they usually do. She knows that little Harry Potter doesn't know life outside his role, and somehow, that is a very bad thing. Bellatrix doesn't care all that much though.

"It's so _fun_, here, Harry-darling." Bellatrix coos, "And it's not like you're not in a gloriously fine mess yourself."

Harry almost smiles. "When are you going to leave this dump anyway?"

Bellatrix shrugs, "You know when."

Harry sighs, "Indeed. Speaking of Fate, I must go."

"Bye-bye bro!" Bellatrix howls as Harry gets up to leave- the guards don't recognize him.

"Tick tock," she screeches as she's escorted to her cell, "TICK TOCK GUARDS!"

She is stunned and tossed into her cell. The dementors are ordered to increase their presence along her cell area- they continue to avoid her.

Harry returns for a second time a few days later, tossing something in his hands.

"I was bored," he explains later, once they're alone. "The Dursely's won't let me do a thing to entertain myself." Bellatrix shrugs, and catches the ball Harry tosses to her. She mentally adds an enchantment, and Harry's hands turn bright blue when he catches it. Harry raises an eyebrow, and throws back the ball and she's suddenly feels like she's been dumped in a bucket of cold water. The game is fun. The guards stun her upon their unexpected arrival and dump her in her cell. Bellatrix laughs and laughs.

(*)(*)(*)

Dear Gertie.

Oh it's a nasty, nasty business about those food shortages around here. The fields have been rotting for quite a _while_, my husband says, and Bagnold's been covering it all up! We might have to get our food from those nasty muggles, Gertie, isn't that awful?

And _have _you heard about that _terrible _plague in the Continent? All of the good sort have been drawing themselves into seclusion, and there's been talk of immigrating to the Americas! The _Americas, Gertie_! Gods, I would rather die than go there!

And that scandal about Bellatrix Black, could you believe that the lovely girl was a Death Eater? I remember when she used to come down here to play with Annie and Cyddy, shame that they left here. Such a big shame. They claimed that she liked to hurt them, but they were such nasty filthy liars, right? I bet she was under the Imperious and was just too ashamed to admit it, the poor girl. Life sentence in Azkaban, what a waste. We need more of her sort around here.

I digress.

The famine around this area already has some of those lower-class folk leaving the area. Rodger and Willia are thinking of doing the same, but I managed to convince them to adopt a wait and see kind of thing. They agreed, and we're all waiting for the other shoe to drop. The air's thick with tension around here, ever since Sirius and Bellatrix Black got locked up.

Tell me, what's going on in Scotland?

-Abigail


	3. Chapter 2

**when has it ever mattered (to take what we want?)**

_Pestilence_

Gabrielle Delacour was a child.

It was important to remember this.

She was a child, and had a very thin grasp of right and wrong.

Therefore, when Ariel Talligesto mocked Gabrielle for her heritage, it heralded the end of Wizarding France. Ariel slowly wasted away, spreading the disease to several of her friends before being sequestered away. Shortly after that, most of the pureblooded wizards were infected.

Strangely, most muggle-borns and halfbloods only were ill the first few days before pulling through.

So, with Wizarding logic, they were to be blamed for the illness decimating the respectable households. Now remember, according to the _knowledgeable _witches and wizards, genetics did not exist. Marrying your brother would not, according to them, do anything terrible to your children.

The smart ones avoided inbreeding.

Sadly, there weren't many of those.

Tensions grew, and Gabrielle got into a fight with Margert Tellins, a muggle-born. Tellins didn't have a chance. At the first long scratch across the five-year-old's face it turned yellow. The skin began to rot away, and Gabrielle grew _fascinated_.

Margert died. The fascination didn't.

Like a dog with a pristine bone, Gabrielle vigilantly worked at the why's and how's of infection. Then Fleur went back to school (her fourth year, Maman was so proud) and Gabrielle finally became interested in magic.

Spells, for whatever reason, simply did not work on Gabrielle. They had a tendency to reflect back on their caster, in a sickened mockery of their light. The last spell that had been cast on her had given an STD to the caster.

Gabrielle knew he deserved it.

He was found dead two days later.

She leaves death and violence wherever she goes, and yet, you could not fault the angel of destruction. She matches the part, with her snow-white hair and baby-blues.

War comes to talk to her once, when his mother is flirting with some rich pureblood on the beach. He's just received his Hogwarts letter. Gabrielle is six.

"You're on the verge of killing this nation," he remarks proudly.

"Really?" She asks, "What a pity. I don't want a new toy."

Blaise laughs, and Gabrielle joins in after a beat.

Fleur once found and tried on the ring.

Her skin bubbled and boiled, and turned a nasty shade of green, and her hair rotted out in patches. Gabrielle had flounced into the room, unaware, and had gasped in horror.

She tugged the ring off, hid it, and screamed for Maman.

The ring despite summoning charms and spells, was never found. Gabrielle, after that episode, attaches the ring to the vial necklace, and wears it under her robes.

Her experiments resumed with a previous unknown fever. The illness that had first infected Ariel Talligesto spread to the outskirts of France, having killed out two families and decimating dozens more. The illness (Talligesto, they were calling it, after patient zero) burned itself out after wiping out an additional family.

Gabrielle pursed her lips, narrowed her eyes, and deliberately infected a pissy, high in the food chain, _racist _pureblood with a skin-melting virus.

She was applauded.

"_Bravo_!" said a man when Gabrielle whirled around. He's disgusting, practically open sores,, infected cuts and boils. Gabrielle like him instantly. "Glorious work, really. Pip, pip cheerio!"

"We're in France," Gabrielle points out, "that's an English term."

"Really?" the infected man asks, "You must excuse me, I've been in America longer than you've been alive and quite a bit before that too. Anyway, care to guess my name? No? It's _Pestilence_. Contrary to Gaimen and Prachett. Even if I _had_…" Pestilence trails off and looks at Gabrielle shrewdly, "you would have been my replacement."

"Your replacement?" Gabrielle questions, feeling a tad confused.

"Yes. Mine. You're my _heir _you see. It's getting to be quite the stretch to monitor and infect all the universes you see, for myself and my brothers. War is getting to be quite pissy about missing the Trojan War three times in a row to help collapse governments, you see. Best thing to do for everyone's interest." After a beat, "She hates collapsing governments. Regards it as an unwieldy chore."

Gabrielle looks at the man for a beat, and slowly smiles. "Tell me _more_."

The man does. He also shows her how to better wield a needle before taking his leave, cackling madly to himself. Gabrielle doesn't care. She has a new toy, and a new person to poison.

Wizarding England cuts off contact with France at the second go-around of a new disease. The rest of the Wizarding world rapidly follows suit. Gabrielle starts experimenting with plants.

After that, Wizarding France is a lone island. No trade, no immigrants, no tourism.

Gabrielle is rather proud.

The muggles continue their lives, oblivious to the turmoil.

(*)(*)(*)

_Dear Sally,_

_My family and I find ourselves in need of a favor. Ordinarily, I'd hate to ask this, especially on such short notice. France at the moment isn't letting one leave the country, with all the illnesses and viruses running rampant around the country. Most of my family has fallen ill at this point, and their treatments are getting rather costly. So costly in fact, that our account in France is drying up. I'm unable to get a job, partly because of the extreme laws here that they have about women working (I believe it's on account of the multitude of veela here) and the fact that everyone requires around the clock care. Not to mention, there's hardly a job in sight._

_So please, I'm you my Gringotts key, cousin, and asking you to withdraw everything in the account. Send it back here, so I can have the funds to care for my family. I am begging you. _

_I know what you said about me marrying into a family of purebloods, but they don't deserve to die like this. Sally, please. _

_Everyone is vomiting and leaking blood out of their mouths, and I can barely afford to keep a physician to help alleviate most of the symptoms. _

_-With Love,_

_Malliana_


	4. Chapter 3

**one two three four (better lock your doors)**

_War_

Blaise Zabini was bred for destruction and mayhem.

He killed his first person at seven.

Mother was so proud.

She baked him a rich chocolate cake that matched the color of his skin (Mother was a pale alabaster. Father had chocolate skin) and threw him a party. Some of her friends showed up, each wearing a bright red ribbon around their throat and a smile like a knife.

His second one, at age nine, was for a job. Mother had missed the opportunity because he had moved behind a steel wall, perhaps listening to his survival instincts. Blaise had waited until he was alone, and had proudly given the man a picture he had drawn before skipping off. The paper had been soaked in one of Mother's poisons, left to dry, and then drawn on. Blaise had been wearing gloves.

The man collapsed several seconds after Blaise had vanished into the crowd. He was dead by the time the paramedics got there.

Mother ruffled his hair and taught him how to throw a dagger.

The body count grows and grows, and Blaise simply doesn't care because Mother is showering him in praise and lessons every time he comes home. They call him the Little Killer.

Blaise doesn't remember much of his tenth birthday other than receiving a golden necklace that was more like a collar than a necklace, and a dagger. He smiles.

Wizarding Switzerland erupts into war after the Zabini's vacation there. It is the first war in Switzerland since its founding.

He starts fights and ends them with a sharp, cutting smile, and a tilt of his head, and he is rapidly avoided after two boys that Blaise had been frowning at turn up dead with a Glasgow smile.

His mother tisks, and they move.

On his eleventh birthday- three months until Hogwarts, his mother gives him a ring. Then, they go to France.

He receives his Hogwarts letter in their second month there, and then.

And then he meets someone like him.

She has hair paler then snow, blue eyes full of malice, and a ring with sickly green emeralds to match his ring of war. She smiles, and he can see her sizing him up. He smirks back, and she hesitates.

"You're on the verge of killing a nation," he remarks proudly. The knowledge comes to him after he looks at her, and it's like someone's whispering in his ear.

"_Really_?" she drawls, "What a shame. I don't want to get a new toy."

Blaise tips back his head and laughs, the child joining in after a beat.

France is a breath of fresh air, and they manage to leave before the quarantine. It is in Spain when he meets him.

War is a woman with flowing red hair and a macabre grin. She's relaxing on the stoop of an outdoor restaurant and is on a verge of causing a riot. Blaise sits down beside her.

"Oh." She says, and smirks. A man across from them snarls and punches a man that he was friendly with five minutes earlier. The man that he punched staggered back into another man that gets hit by a car. This causes a full-blown street fight. Blaise admires this. "Oh _darling_."

"I know you but I don't." Blaise says, watching the fight evolve into a full-blown riot that avoids their side of the street.

"You are _War_, doll. Just like me. You and me are the _same_." The woman laughs. A building is set on fire. "Don't worry. You'll grow into the role." Police flood the riot.

"This world doesn't have long, does it?" Blaise asks, watching the police put their shields up and start to march forward, arresting people.

"No," War sobers a bit, not looking as amused as she was previously, "No, sweetheart, it doesn't. All four of you heirs were born here. This world is gonna implode."

War vanishes after teaching him to change shape. She leaves as a man with a dark smile and dark red eyes. Wizarding Russia goes to war against Wizarding Ukraine.

Blaise, two days before Hogwarts, kills a diplomat. Tensions are high between Wizarding Bulgaria and Wizarding Britain because of that.

Blaise, all by himself, causes three fights, twelve arguments and forty-two new enemies. He has a feeling that War would be proud.

He sees a dark-haired boy with killing-curse eyes enter the train. They lock eyes. They nod, and go to compartments on opposite sides of the trains.

(*)(*)(*)

_Dear Jonathan,_

_I have no idea what happened. One day, everything is fine. The next, there is fighting on the streets and I have to step over dead bodies on my way to the Portkey Point. Never in my life have I regretted not learning apparition until today. I don't even know what happened in my darling Ukraine, expect that it is __**war **__here. It's terrible. Fuck, Jon, blood is running in the fucking streets. What the hell happened?_

_Ukraine and Russia, the Wizarding part of it at least, never really separated from its satellite state from the Cold War with America. Now, Ukraine, after decades of repeatedly declaring their fine with staying with Russia, decides to __**revolt**__? Something isn't adding up, but I'll be damned if I join either the Rebels or the Glorious Soviet Army. Jon, I'm legitimately terrified that I'll be press-ganged into either of the armies. I can't even take you up on your offer to your place, because of the fucking quarantine on France. Shit. _

_Jon, should I flee the Continent to Asia, or to the Americas, brother? I will not, I will __**not **__be pressed into this fight. I have the money, I have the means, I'm just not sure if it's a good idea or not. _

_Just, I'm remembering this kid, right before the war started, skipping down Abvail Alley whistling. He was dark-skinned, and had this __**smile**__. Fuck, that smile was fucking terrifying. _

_I'm sending this with Gallieo, my fastest owl. Careful, he likes to bite fingers. _

_With Love, _

_Rianna_


	5. Chapter 4

**run little red riding hood (the wolf's at your door)**

_Death_

Be a gentlemen, Aunt Petunia tells him once, when he's shivering barechested and barefooted outside in the cold. Stop being a freak and maybe I'll let you back inside.

Harry tries so very hard not be a freak.

But. But. But.

There's always a but, isn't there?

It isn't the first time he's locked outside in the cold, when it's raining. Not the first sneer he gets from Aunt Petunia, from Uncle Vernon, from Dudley. Not the first time he wishes he wasn't a freak.

But. But. But.

There is always another side of the story.

There just isn't one in Harry Potter's case.

The cloak hides him the first time Harry figures out how to open the cupboard from the inside and it settles around him as he creeps out to steal food so his stomach can stop hurting.

He's stealing. Stealing, stealing, _stealing_. His mummy would be so ashamed- but his tummy hurts and he gets locked in his cupboard whenever he asks, so what can he _do_? Harry sniffles and takes an apple, and flees to his cupboard when he hears the stairs creak. He learns to wait until Dudley comes downstairs and then goes to the kitchen to take a small bit of cake, an apple, leftovers. Aunt Petunia coos over her growing boy that's starting to resemble an overgrown pumpkin.

Harry opens the doors for people. He stands when a lady enters the room. He takes off his hat when eating, and during the pledge.

He goes to church.

That's where he sees the man. The man is _hollow_ and _sunken _and just not all the way there. Harry can't describe what he looks like and just remembers a grinning, grinning skull.

The ring appears on his ring finger, diamonds set in gold, when Vernon locks him outside and doesn't let him in for a week. Harry must be imagining someone carding a hand through his hair, because who would ever care about him?

The wand.

Oh the wand.

Harry won't talk about the wand.

But. But. But.

The dead won't leave him alone now.

The woman in the prison that sucks the life out of people… they're the same. The tiny girl in France that wrecks havoc with a macabre grin and blood on her lips...they're the same too. The boy that Harry sees frequently, and only after a death… they're all the same, but Harry doesn't really understand.

"No, you wouldn't understand, would you?" The voice sounds so terribly sad. "The definition of family would just go right over your head, wouldn't it?"

Harry looks up. The man above him in his cupboard shouldn't be able to stand up without knocking his head. Harry still doesn't know what he looks like other than that grinning face. The man looks so incredibly sad for some reason that Harry can't understand.

"Who're you?" He asks, making no move to sit up. Or even move. Where would he go?

"Death."

"_I'm _Death," Harry feels compelled to point out, because he's been Reaping since the day the wand came to him.

"Can't there be more than one?" The older Death questions, "Nonetheless, child, you are my heir."

Death is very good at explaining things. Harry supposes it's from all the practice he gets.

(*)(*)(*)

The goblins spit three times when they see him.

The hags spit in their old, wrinkly hands and run it through their six times, before bowing low and leaving.

Harry sees this when he goes with Hagrid. The witches and wizards don't listen to the small part of their brain that's screaming at them to pay their respect, but then. But then, they never have, have they?

But. But. But.

Two sides to tradition, to culture.

Two sides to everything- everything has a dark and a light.

The meanings aren't always the same, the calling, the traditions are flipped. Dark side doesn't always mean war. Light side doesn't always mean peace.

Death doesn't always mean passing, and life doesn't always mean living.

It's awkward and wrong, and Harry doesn't understand the first time he sees a ghost-child skipping down a darkened alley. Her smile fades when she sees him and she flees, running through a wall.

The ghosts always know.

But. But. But.

They don't always understand.

Vampires murmur to each other and nod cordially to him from the mouth of Knockturn Alley. Werewolves smack each other from where they're hanging around outside Gringotts and glower at anyone who's looking at him wrong.

The unhumans know. The unhumans understand.

(*)(*)(*)

The mess of Weasleys just outside the platform are easy to ignore. The boy, the dark-skinned boy who's also a girl that _screams _of war isn't as easy. They restrain themselves, nod at each other (_iwanttoknowyoupleaselookformewhenit'ssafepromisemewar_), and get into seperate compartments on the train.

Harry ignores the red-haired boy that tries to sit with him by telling him that he's holding the compartment for his friends, the boy tries to get in regardless and confused when he suddenly finds himself in another compartment entirely on the train.

The pale-skinned boy with his two bullies also try to sit with him. Harry just arches an eyebrow and suggests they sit somewhere else. The pale-skinned boy doesn't take kindly to that, and Harry uses the same trick on him and his bullies that he used on the red-haired boy.

War comes to him after that.

"Blaise Zabini," he says, holding out a hand for him to shake, which Harry takes gladly. "Brother, how I am glad I found you."

Harry smiles shyly as he responds, "Harry Potter. Sit, please. Lock the door, the rest of our siblings won't be joining us for a while yet."

The door locks by itself mere seconds before the Trolley Witch knocks- when she doesn't get a reply,she moves on. Another knock. They eventually move on too.

They don't talk on the ride to Hogwarts, both comfortable in the silence. Their clothes change from muggle to wizard without them moving. Blaise cleans a small knife that he pulls out of the small of his back and Harry studies a muggle primer.

"Here," Blaise offers, holding the newly polished knife out to him.

Harry takes it and thanks him. They keep touching each other, unable to believe that they have finally met.

The train pulls into Hogwarts.

They get out.


	6. Chapter 5

**the origin of everything (the origin of nothing)**

_Gabriel_

Gabriel is a girl in this verse, one with bushy brown hair and buck-teeth. In the other verse that he spends most of his time in, he's a trickster with honey-gold eyes.

What never changes is that he stands apart from the rest of his family.

He knows that the other three have been slinking in and out, hearing the end of this universe approaching. She (not he now, she must remember the appropriate pronouns) is the only one here until the end.

"_Abbott, Hannah!_" The woman that moves like a cat calls out, brandishing a hat. Gabriel (Hermione, she reminds herself sternly) watches as she gets sorted into Hufflepuff. The next two also go into that house, and soon enough, her name is called.

"_Granger, Hermione!" _

She walks to the ramshackle stool, and her vision is obstructed by the ratty hat.

"_Hm,_" it hums in her mind, "_brave, loyal, intelligent, cunning- you carry the traits of all four founders, Ms. Granger. But your wit and your bravery are above all else."_

"_Put me," _Hermione demands, "_Where I can watch, and where I can wait for the end._"

"_The end of what?_"

Hermione smiles, "_Everything. Nothing. It's all the same to me, rather._"

"_Slytherin!_"

She sits down primly next to a glowering seventh year. She smiles at him and he flinches.

At last, after Malfoy is sorted into her house, ("You're a _mudblood_," he sneers. Hermione ignores him and casually sticks him to the bench he's attempting to lounge on. "You don't _belong _here."

"Do any of us truly belong _anywhere_?" she asks philosophically, "But I rather think I belong more than someone who cannot keep his mouth shut when it matters."

He flushes. She smirks and turns back to the Sorting) there is a call of "_Potter, Harry_!"

Death.

Hermione watches.

He is small and pale, almost see-through. His eyes, she notices, are almost the exact shade of the killing curse. Subtle, thy name is not Harry Potter.

The hat is on his head for five minutes. The hall is getting restless, shifting and muttering in their seats, when the hat finally calls out the house.

"_Hufflepuff!" _

Dead, awestruck silence. Harry looks more amused than anything else, handing back the hat to the teacher that walks like a Hufflepuff house gives him a wide berth as he sits down.

"Potter's a 'Puff?"

"D'you think he''s gonna be resorted?"

"Bloody _hell_!"

"Gred, Forge, you both owe me a sickle!"

"Damn it!"

The time ticks away as she waits for War- "_Zabini, Blaise!"_- to be sorted. The hall is still confused about Harry Potter, but Hermione wasn't really surprised.

Death is loyal. Death is hard-working. Death takes everyone, so is Death not the epitome of Hufflepuff? It is not the house of the leftovers, no matter what the hat may sing.

There is a twinge in the air that catches her attention, that drags her away from her thoughts. Blaise is getting upset, angry, _violent. _Hermione waits for the outburst.

"_Gryffin- GET ME OFF THIS KID'S HEAD, BLOODY FUCK! HUFFLEPUFFF! HUFFLEPUFF!" _The hat wails, and Blaise grins, sharp-like, and gives the hat back to the professor that walks like a cat and goes to the Hufflepuff table. An even wider berth was given to the two Horsemen, and they smiled at that.

She could guess who the first people in Dumbledore's office would be. She snickered a little and ignored the speech that Dumbledore gave while eyeing the two Hufflepuffs- his fear, worry, anger, and confusion filled the air, and it _reeked_.

She ignored the looks that the other Slytherins were giving her, and concentrated more on the two Horsemen bent close together, their black hair nearly touching. Unfortunately, they were at the table furthest from Slytherin.

Pity.

The Bloody Baron appeared next to Draco Malfoy, who shrieked and flinched away, and yelled when he realized he couldn't. "Welcome Slytherin students," he said drolly, "May you be prosperous in your new home."

Hermione rolled her eyes and pointedly ignored the sneers as she brought the baked potatoes closer to herself. She wasn't all that hungry.

"Get them _off_!" A redheaded boy suddenly screamed, "Bloody fuck, off! Get them _off_!"

There was nothing there.

"Ron," one of the twins sitting at the table asked, "are you alright?"

"_Spiders_!" He screeched.

Harry wasn't the scene with great amusement. Blaise was picking at his mashed potatoes as he hissed something in Harry's ear.

Hermione made a mental note to figure out the exact date, other than a vague five or so years from now.

(*)(*)(*)

Ron had to be sedated and brought to the Hospital Wing, still screaming- even while being stunned- about spiders.

Nobody was looking at either of the Horsemen.

Hermione made another mental note to find out where the other two were. She thinks that Pestilence may be in France, with all the viruses and contagions that were currently haunting the country. Famine would be harder to track down, but Africa would probably be a good start.

She is jolted out of her thoughts when the Slytherin table stands to leave. She casts another look at the Hufflepuff table, at the two Horsemen that are at the back of the first-year back. They are smiling.

Hermione would guess that they have left an unpleasant surprise behind at their table.

("Blaise," Harry says, fiddling with a block of wood and his wand, struggling to burn a rune into it that wouldn't take his own arm off, "what are we _doing_?

Blaise snickers, "Watching. Learning. _Plotting_, darling."

Harry laughs and sticks the block under the table. He kicks it so it skids closer to where the seventh-years are sitting.)

The rune goes off at midnight. The words _The clock is running _hangs over the teacher's table, and it scares everyone. It's prophetic, in a sense.

The Great Hall is shut down until they can get it down. Hermione is waiting for the moment they actually get bored and decide that havoc is not enough.


	7. Chapter 6

**have you ever seen (a boy like me?)**

_Professor Quirinus Quirrell who is the host of Lord Voldemort_

He could hear the ticking of the clock every time he was alone. It went _tick tick tick_, and it was driving him mad. His host was sniffling, sobbing at every opportunity and-

He wished he hadn't agreed to the mad deal that his Lord had given him. Quirinus had been promised power, glory-but he had gotten _nothing_. The Dark Lord had taken every single opportunity to inflict _pain-_

Lord Voldemort sneered at the Hufflepuff brats that were filing in as the bell rang, each dutifully caring their book bags and wand. Black hair and killing curse eyes caught his attention, and he was mommently dumbfounded. Potter was a Hufflepuff? This was news. He had thought the boy would be like his parents.

Quirinus smiled at the silent class, relishing the chance to be their first exposure to magic. "W-w-welcome t-to Defense A-against the D-dark Arts!" He hadn't impressed them. Potter (who _doesn't _know what he looks like?) was smiling, and the dark-skinned boy next to him was eyeing him like he was a particularly interesting fly.

Quirinus didn't like either of them. They-

They weren't right, Voldemort noticed immediately. They had the sense of _other _to them, like they had been dabbling in Fae magicks. Potter tilted his head, and was looking like he was paying avid attention to what his host was stammering about. Zabini, Voldemort thought his name was, wasn't even pretending to pay attention, and was instead eyeing his host's wand while folding a piece of parchment sloppily. He passed to the boy next to him as soon as his host turned to scrawl on the board, looking apologetic. The boy opened it and went white, then turned an angry red.

The recipient mouthed a thank you, and tucked the note into his bag.

Class was let out a scant few minutes later- had time really went by that fast?- and approached his host. "This period is a free one, correct?" Zabini asked, looking curious.

"Yes, what of it, ?" Quirinus asked, wishing the duo would leave. He had a headache and wanted to get into his stash of Headache Potions.

"Just want to test a theory, sir." Potter said, and grabbed his arm while Zabini cast a silencing bubble over them. Quirinus screamed. His skin, where Potter had grabbed it, was bubbling over Potter's fist, burning him right to the bone.

"No!" Voldemort cried, and tried to leave.

Zabini caught the smoke in a loosely held fist.

"You shouldn't have done that Riddle." Zabini cooed as Quirinus continued to scream, getting higher-pitched as Harry slapped his other hand onto his professor's face. Voldemort started to scream as Zabini clenched his fist.

"Potter _please!_" Quirinus begged, trying to wrench off Potter's hand off his face. "I knew your parents!"

"Look, Blaise," Potter said mildly, "He lost the stutter. D'you think I can make it come back?" He pressed his hand harder against Quirinus' face. Quirinus screamed louder, and the bone glinted from where the flesh was melting off.

"Don't bother," Zabini said in the same tone, paying more attention to the way Voldemort was screaming as he clenched his fist slowly. "We only have half an hour." Zabini tapped his watch.

"Shame." Potter said, and Quirinus gasped, and fell slowly to the floor as Potter wrenched away his hands. "Look, War. He's gone. Kill yours so I can escort them to the next stop."

Zabini obliged. "Here." He handed the smoke to Potter, who put it in a clear jar.

Potter thanked him and vanished.

(*)(*)(*)

Quirinus wasn't moving. He wasn't a ghost, and he wasn't alive either. He groaned,putting his head in his hands. He then watched in mute horror as the Dark Lord stepped out of the mist, looking classically handsome. He turned his hands this way and that, seemingly fascinated.

"Hello."

The thing that stepped out of the shadows was a grinning skeleton holding a scythe. Quirinus screamed and jumped. Voldemort snarled and moved to grab his wand, only to find to find that it wasn't there.

"Pft. Wizards. Never ready to move on, it seems. You don't have your wand, you don't have anything. You're _mine_." The skeleton laughed. "Why, Tom Marvolo Riddle, you seemed to have misplaced most of your soul! Quirinus Quentin Quirrell, what were you thinking letting him share yours?" It's grin faded a tad, "Now. Quirinus Quentin Quirrell, you may either stay in the land of the living as a ghost or move on to your afterlife." It's empty eyes made contact with Voldemort, "I can't offer you anything until all of your soul comes together. You're stuck in the in-between until it does.

"What happens?" Quirinus asked softly. He seemed scared, worried. As he should be. There was, after all, not a very big chance on him not being able to go to heaven.

"To be,or not to be,that is the question. Choose, I don't have all day." The skeleton tapped its watch pointedly.

"Move on." Quirrell decided after a moment. "There's nothing for me here."

The skeleton extended a hand, which Quirrell took. They vanished then, leaving Voldemort on his own. Voldemort cursed and started to poke around for some means of escape.

The skeleton didn't come back.

Voldemort didn't find his escape.

(*)(*)(*)

The Great Hall was full when people started to notice Quirrell was missing.

Dumbledore called for a house elf and ordered it to find him. It returned scant seconds later with a stricken look on its face. Dumbledore conferred with it quietly, his face growing more somber with every word. He motioned for the rest of the teachers to join him, and whispered to them.

The Great Hall grew silent.

"Class is canceled for the rest of the day." Dumbledore said. "Return at once to your common rooms."

A grinning dark-haired Gryffindor fifth year plopped himself down in front of Hermione and extended his hand. Hermione scowled a deposited a galleon into his palm.


End file.
